


Loneliness is a Disease

by sterekvibes



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Fix-It, Kidnapping, Kinda, M/M, Q is sad and pining, Spectre spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, bond is an asshole, bond leaves, bond why do u keep leaving, but dont worry he comes back evntually, mentions of torture, nobody actually attempts anything though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterekvibes/pseuds/sterekvibes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q stands up, nearly breathless, and ventures towards the lift. Bond is back. He's back. Back. Back Back Back-</p><p>"I need a car."</p><p>Q stops in his tracks. He's not back. No of course he isn't. </p><p>Q's chest hurts.</p><p>"Have fun at an automobile shop then," is what slips out of his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first 00Q fic, so I'm pretty excited. Please be warned I am absolutely horrible at grammer, so please feel free to point out any mistakes. I needed to write this after Spectre destroyed me and I got this idea at like midnight it was very inconvenient.

Bond leaves and Q's _not_ falling apart, thank you very much. He could care less that Bond's off galavanting with the gorgeous Dr. Swann. 

"Quit sulking."

"M' not sulking."

Moneypenny smiles like she's been through this before. (Which she probably has, everyone's had a crush on Bond at one point.)

It's not like Q faults Bond for leaving, Q would leave too if he went through half the shit 007 went through. Bond deserves his happy ending.

Q just wishes he could've been a part of that ending.

-

The thing they don't tell you about being Quartermaster is the graveyard shifts. Not the shift itself, Q signed up for that, ( _God what was he thinking_ ,) but the things that come along with it. While the rest of Q branch are off resting their heads on fluffy pillows, the place is quiet.

Q _hates_ silence. Despises it more than anything in this universe; nothing good ever comes from silence. Silence is where monsters are born and where they thrive.

At one point he puts on music. The piano filters from his computer through the room and echoes hauntingly in the large space.

He turns it off.

-

Next he tries television.

The news is his first choice, but he watches as people die and children go missing and a hurricane sweeps away an entire town.

Q changes the channel, but nothing lessens the pressure in his chest.

-

The graveyard shift is from twelve to seven in the morning, and at eight the rest of his team come flooding in. He leaves then, leaves MI6 in their competent hands and passes out at his home for several hours. He returns at five; carrying muffins and donuts for everyone.

They go from being zombies to harmless puppy dogs in two seconds flat.

"You need to eat some too sir."

"I had one on the way here."

He's met with skeptical looks from his team, so he sighs and prepares to be force fed muffins until he pukes.

At eleven thirty people start heading home and Q is once again left in silence. There's not much to actually do during these hours, most of MI6 at home or sitting quietly in their office. He rarely has to suit up a double-0 now.

So you can imagine his surprise when the lift starts up.

He hazards a guess on who it could be. It could be Moneypenny coming to force feed him, or M giving him an assignment that takes hardly an hour.

(Its neither.)

Q stands up, nearly breathless, and ventures towards the lift. Bond is back. He's back. Back. Back Back Back-

"I need a car."

Q stops in his tracks. He's not back. No of course he isn't.

Q's chest hurts.

"Have fun at an automobile shop then," is what slips out of his mouth.

Bond frowns land that clearly wasn't what he expected. Good, Q still has some cards left up his sleeve then, he's not completely exposed to the man. Q wonders if Bond was even planning on saying goodbye, or just taking a car and leaving nothing but dust in his wake.

Q refuses to be dust.

Bond takes a step forward. Q's started shaking and he resists the urge to lower his eyes from Bond.

"If that is all 00-" he cringes "-Bond."

Bond, because he's not 007 now, probably will never be again. They'll give his title to a younger person who won't be able to fill the reputation. Q will suit the new agent up with gadgets and gizmos (and _never_ an exploding pen, that was only for Bond,) while pretending that the ache in his chest has nothing to do with the former 007 at all.

Bond's gaze is leveled on him and Q can hardly breathe. He turns back around to his desk, shuffling papers to calm himself down.

"Goodbye Q," Bond says and Q holds himself still until Bond's footsteps fade away.

"Goodbye 007," he whispers and Q realizes Bond never meant to turn him into dust, no, just ashes.

-

Loneliness is rather like a disease, Q thinks. It can spread from person to person with a simple touch or a few words. Yes, loneliness is a disease, one that can't be cured even in the company of another. It affects how how you think and how you live.

Q thinks he's caught it, and unfortunately even a genius like himself can't find a cure.

The night shift is even worse now, the shadows on walls taking on the appearance of his own personal monsters.

 

His stomach rumbles, and there's no tea on his desk. At this point Bond would've come striding in with Q's equipment in pieces and warm tea in hand. He would've placed the cup down and leaned Q's desk, teasing him. His blue eyes would bore holes into Q's head until he payed attention to him. Then Bond would only leave if Q's frown had quite literally turned upside down.

Sometimes Q wasn't able to muster up a smile, so Bond didn't leave.

Except now there will be no one to keep Q sane during the night shift, because Bond is gone.

The thought stops the movement of his hands, it hadn't really sunk in until now; that Bond is never coming back. Because he isn't no matter what moneypenny believes.

("It'll last a week and then he'll be right back to being a pain in our asses.")

His eyes start to blur and weariness sets into his body. He can't remember when he had a real meal last. He's been trying to improve 009's gun for the last few hours, neglecting his body's needs.

There's a voice in his head that sounds a lot like Moneypenny's telling him Growing boys need to eat, but Q doesn't think there's much left that needs to grow anymore.

He picks 009's gun back up again. It is smooth and black, and Q has not yet coded it to fit 009's hand.

 _Anyone can use it,_ the deepest darkest corners of his mind whisper.

Of course, he knows shooting himself would be illogical, but the thought hits him of how easy it would be to simply bring the gun to his head and pull the trigger. The walls are soundproof and he's the only one there.

 _No one would really miss him_ , the monsters suggest.

Q pushes the gun far out of his reach.

-

He heads home on the tube, trying to keep his breathing in check. He can't meet the eyes of the elderly woman across from him, can't respond when a man asks if he's okay.

Because really, Q doesn't know if he's okay anymore. These are the thoughts that lead down a dangerous and slippery slope, one Q has ventured before.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them there's no one else on the tube.

-

He has _cats_. He has cats that need to be taken care of and how could he even think of killing himself when he has cats. Who would be there to feed them and give them the love they deserve? Who would take the things out of their mouth so they don't choke?

Guilt suffocates him until he's a ball on the floor. He cries and his cats lick the tears from his face and brush their tails against his arm.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out,"M' so so sorry."

He puts food in their bowls and heads to his bed.

-

There are good days and then there are bad days.

"I'm taking the day off tomorrow," Q informs M.

"Q look there's still a lot to do-"

"M, with all due respect if I don't take a day off there's a good probability I'll take the Walther PPK to my head and won't hesitate to pull the trigger."

M nods, face blank.

"You're just joking right?"

He's really not.

-

On his day off he schedules an appointment with a therapist.

"I think you have abandonment issues."

Q scoffs, he could've told her that an hour ago.

It's quite obvious; his parents left him at a young age, and then his aunt turned him away when he couldn't be properly schooled. He hasn't been able to keep friends, and the most important person currently in his life drove off into the sunset with a blonde bombshell.

"I feel enlightened now, thank you," Q remarks.

_Therapy is a waste of time_

-

 Moneypenny tells him they're clearing out Bond's flat.

"Do you want look at it before they throw things out?"

"Yes," he tells her, even though he knows that there's nothing for him there,"For closure."

She gives him a pitying look. Q is easy to read, his crush on Bond had been visible to everyone, but Moneypenny believes it was more than that.

Q's whole face would light up whenever Bond was around. He stayed up through the night developing special gadgets just for Bond, surrounded by empty tea cups and failed prototypes.

It was quite pathetic really, Q admits. There's no doubt that the former agent took notice of it; he reads people for a living. _Used_ to read people for a living, Q reminds himself, now he's off doing who-knows-what with god-knows-who.

Well, Q does actually know what and with whom thanks to the smart blood system (that he most _definitely_ did not keep activated just to track the man.)

Bond is in Paris, the city of love.

 _How romantic_ , Q thinks bitterly.

-

They get to Bond's old flat and there's hardly anything in it.

"He wasn't a very sentimental person," Moneypenny informs him. She wipes her finger on the counter and it comes away covered in dust; she scrunches her nose.

Bond didn't really have much to be sentimental about, did he? What with everyone he ever loved buried six feet in the ground.

Q examines the mostly empty space. There's a torn up old couch that probably came with the flat, a television sitting on the ground. Take out containers and empty beer bottles litter the hardwood floor. _Not just lack of sentiment,_ he realizes, no, Bond was ready to leave at a moment's notice. Leaving is easy when you have nothing to leave behind.

"You can take anything you want," Moneypenny declares.

Q elects to take the well-worn navy coat lying on the sofa. It smells like alcohol and blood and Bond; Q loves it. He slips it over his shoulders and relaxes into the warmth of the fabric.

"You're drowning in that," Moneypenny giggles. There's a box tucked under her arm.

"What's that?" He asks.

She pulls the box out from under her arm,"This would be the only sentimental things Bond owned," she holds it out towards him, "I think you should have it."

Q doesn't agree.

"Mail it to him," he suggests. Bond wouldn't want the bespectacled boy with a crush the size of jupiter on him to keep his belongings.

"Take it. Give it to him when he returns," she sticks the box right under his nose. Against his better judgement, Q grasps the box with his cold fingers and handles it delicately.

"He's not coming back," Q mumbles and stares down at the box.

Moneypenny ignores him,"Let's go for drinks."

-

Q gets absolutely smashed. Somewhere between his fourth and fifth drink, Moneypenny divulges that that was her plan. Q believes it was a rather good idea and knocks back another drink just for the sake of her plan.

He stops when there are two Moneypennys sitting across from him and a nauseous feeling in his stomach.

"Why do I like him?" Q whines.

Moneypenny seems to roll the question around in her head.

"He's hot," she answers and Q nods in agreement,"and-" she pauses,-"he has a really nice cock."

"I've never seen his cock," Q responds with a frown.

"That's a shame. It's a spectacular cock."

He's heard rumors about Bond's sexual prowess, but Q never thought Moneypenny was one of his conquests. Q slides his glass back and forth between his hands and debates on ordering another drink.

A man seated down the bar has been eyeing him for a while now. If Q drinks enough he can go home with him and pretend it's Bond fucking him into the mattress and Bond leaving marks on his skin and Bond's fingers pressing into the ridge of his back.

Of course then he'll wake up the next morning sore and disappointed in himself, but more so in that the man lying next to him doesn't have the hands of killer.

"Will I ever get over him?" Q inquires. Moneypenny sighs and knocks back another drink.

"You will, but do you want to get over him?"

"No," Q mutters.

-

Another person joins him on the graveyard shift.

"I volunteered," Becky responds when he asks her why,"Don't want our precious Quartermaster to be lonely."

Throughout the night he listens to the clacking of Beck's keyboard and the shadows look less like monsters.

-

Q's gotten into the habit of checking the smart blood system everyday. He was used to seeing the blinking little dot traveling around France, which is why when he notices the current location he nearly spits out his tea.

Bond is back in London.

"Bloody hell," he murmurs. He sets his cup back on his desk and zooms in on the dot.

 _He's in the building_. Q takes in a sharp breath and shakily rises to his feet.  
_Don't make assumptions_ , Q berates himself, _he could just be here to gather his things or tie up loose ends. He's not back_.

Q repeats the phrase in his head like a mantra, except it doesn't squash the hope that floods through his body. Hope is a risky emotion, which he usually doesn't partake in. The fact that Bond is the only one to make Q hope in years is terrifying.

With that thought he forces himself back into his chair and schools his features. Q will just let Bond come to him.

-

"Q," Bond says his name and Q's heart swells in his chest. The man's piercing eyes roam over every inch of the Quartermaster, taking in the shaking of his leg and the tea stains on his sweater.

"Are you back then?" Q asks and fights desperately to keep his voice even.

"I am," 007 responds.

"Welcome back," Q says.

 _Welcome home you fucking asshole_ , he doesn't say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q isn't given the opportunity to be lonely because Bond is everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo this was going to be just two parts but I wrote too much so now its three parts whoops

After Bond had reported to M, the news of the agents return had spread throughout MI6. Q Branch had been a mess, all worried about their Quartermaster. Some went out and bought treats and placed them on his desk, others gave Q programs to debug.

(Knowing how much their Quartermaster loves a good debugging.)

Becky, who Q he absolutely _adores_ , wrapped a fluffy blanket around him and gave him a pat on the head. Then Bond came back to Q Branch for a mission

"Q."

Q glares, hair mussed up and drowning in a blanket, looking like an affronted kitten.

(It's adorable.)

"You drove my car into a river," Q announces.

"Look-"

"Then you had the gall to ask me for another one."

"I'll make it up to you," Bond promises.

“You put my career on the line, multiple times. So yes, you will make it up to me.” Q hands Bond his tablet.

“You will be taking a mission posing undercover as a Porta-potty Servicer. Nasty little things to clean, and who better to do it then our best double-0?"

After Bond had reported to M, Q dug up a mission that was originally meant for a low level spy and assigned it to Bond. It was just a regular intel gathering mission. M had been all for the idea, (thrilled actually), and signed off on it with his favorite pen.

 _"You're truly a genius Q,"_ M had told him.

"Really?" Bond flips through it and grimaces.

"You wanted to make it up to me, 007."

Q snuggles further into the blanket and sips at his tea. Becky gives him an approving look from her desk.

-

Q gives Bond a better mission this time because that’s his job. He's not going to let his feelings get in the way again because he’s a _professional_. No matter how much he wants to pass off the mission to another double-0, he does what’s best for MI6. He suits 007 up with a new watch and a new gun and sends him off to Brazil with a name and a face.

“Helena Castelda, wanted in three countries for theft, first-degree murder, and human trafficking. She was seen in various places interacting with C.” Q informs Bond.

They’ve been tying up loose ends of Spectre for weeks now, and just recently came across her existence. She’s good at hiding, but Q’s better at finding.

Bond heaves a sigh and tucks his gun into his waistband. “I was kind of hoping it would all have been dealt with by now.”

“It would’ve,” Q grits his teeth,“If you hadn’t left MI6 when you were needed most.”

“Right. You’re still angry,” Bond points out.

“Yes, very good 007. Way to put those observational skills to use.” Q shakes his head to remind himself that he’s a _professional_ , and hands Bond his tablet.

“The point of the mission is to find out what and who she knows and then kill her.” Q tells the agent. “Seduction-” Q clears his throat, “-is optional, but highly recommended.”

Bond’s lips turn down at that, looking like he’d rather do anything else. Q imagines his feelings for Dr. Swann still run strong, and can’t even fathom the idea of getting into someone else’s bed. It's not  the first time Q wonders why they ended things.

“It’s not necessary, there’s always- uh- torture,” Q offers and his voice wobbles a little.

"I suppose,” Bond replies. Q takes the tablet out of his hand and walks over to his desk.

Bond's body presses firm and warm against Q’s back, hands trapping him against his desk. “What technique do you think would work better?” he practically purrs.

 _I'm not the one you're supposed to be seducing_ , Q thinks.

He waits until he can breathe again. “Statistically speaking, your missions are more likely to go right if seduction is used.”

He slips out from Bond’s hold and goes to sit in his chair. “But uh,” he drums his hand on his chair, “70% of statistics are made up.”

Bond laughs and Q thinks of that as an accomplishment. He could write it on his resume _I made an agent who looks murderous half the time giggle_. He's sure that would go over well, if he ever left MI6.

“You leave in about three hours, so I suggest getting things together soon.”

Bond nods and leaves the room. Q relaxes back into his chair with a sigh and prays that God will forgive him for hoping that Bond uses the option of torture.

-

Bond doesn't use either option, instead he shoots her in the head on sight. The noise makes Q drop his mug and it shatters across the tile at his feet.

“Jesus _Christ_.” Q swears. He slides back over to the monitors from where he was doing a crossword puzzle when he was so rudely _interrupted_.

“Get information then kill, Bond. Not shoot her in the head and then try to beat the information out of her _corpse_.”

“Sorry Q.” Bond grunts in Q's earpiece. On screen he's hopping from rooftop to rooftop with a man on his tail. “Didn't have many options.”

And after that little fiasco Bond returns to London with Q's watch (burnt) and his gun (in pieces) and a nasty gash in his side.

“You used the watch when it was completely unnecessary, which caused casualties.”

“No one died,” Bond defends.

“Yes, fortunately for you.”

But Q, he was the one reprimanded this time for giving Bond another exploding gadget. M’s told him he needs to monitor Bonds missions more carefully from now on.

“But unfortunately for you, you've been downgraded to clean up missions.”

“Like the Porta-potty job.” Bond wrinkles his nose.

  That job had to be Q's favorite. He monitored the feed while the double-0 cleaned out bodily fluids. It was disgusting, but brilliant payback.

Q's smile is smug. “Like the Porta-potty job.”

Bond glares and holds his hand to his side.

“Get down to medical you're bleeding on my floor.”

-

Q bundles up in his coat, prepared to head home early. Becky said she'd take the night shift today, patting him on the back.

 **  
**He thanked her and promised to bring some bagels and fresh tea in the morning. **  
**

He exits Q branch with his laptop tucked under his arm, anticipation bubbling in his chest. His bed calls to him.

“Is that my coat?” 007 asks from behind him.

_Jesus fucking Christ this man is everywhere._

“Not anymore,” Q responds.

If Bond wants his coat back he’ll have to fight Q for it. Although it’s a fight Q would most definitely lose, he’s grown to love the old thing. It still smells of Bond and Q does not sleep with it sometimes when his flat is feels empty.

Bond’s mouth turns up at the corners, a hint of a grin. He advances towards Q and stops just shy of being what is considered inappropriately close. Q, having issues with proximity from the moment he was _born_ , starts sweating.

“Do you have any of my other things?” Bond murmurs.

Q opens his mouth to tell him no, but then remembers the little box sitting on his kitchen counter. Q will stare it it, squinting, when he first wakes up. It always takes him a minute to remember what it is.

“I have a box,” he admits, “I didn’t open it, but Moneypenny thought it would be safe with me.”

The look on Bond’s face is disbelief. Q fidgets with the coat’s frayed edges, and waits until the silence is deafening to say something.

“I really didn’t,” he promises,  “I was just heading home. Would you like to uhm- collect it?”

“Well,” Bond starts, “I don’t exactly have a place to stay any more, and since you have my things, ”

“Oh yes, no. Bond look-”

“-Would you mind having me too?”

 _Having him. Over. To sleep._ Q flushes. _Just sleeping_ , the sane part of his brain gently reminds him. Bond sleeping at his flat, possibly _shirtless_ , eating food Q _cooks_. This is not good for Q’s health.

“Where were you sleeping before?”

“A hotel, but the doctors say I should have someone with me tonight. Incase I bleed out and there's no one there to help.” Bond holds his side and grimaces in pain to further prove his point.

Q _can't_ just leave the man to die on uncomfortable hotel sheets.

“I have cats,” Q mentions.

Bond is amused. “I love cats. We had one when I was a kid.”

Q’s mind blanks. Because this gorgeous man who’s a mystery to the world loves _cats_.

He must be hallucinating.

(Since it’s all a hallucination, there’s no harm in saying yes.)

 **  
**- **  
**

So, decidedly not a hallucination.

“What’s this one’s name then?” Bond asks. He gently scratches the cat’s neck as she purrs and inches closer to him.

“Amelia.”

“Aren’t you pretty Miss Amelia.” Bond states and Q _melts_. He never thought in a million years Bond would be petting his cat on his _couch_.  Never thought Bond would voluntarily reside in his flat period. Q was not mentally prepared for this situation.

He sits on the armchair across from Bond, shrugging off his coat and folding his hands in his lap. “So you had a cat then?” Q asks.

Bond keeps petting Amelia, now a fond smile gracing his face. “She was the scrappiest little thing, brought back all sorts of dead animals. During the day she would sleep and during the night she would hunt.”

Q listens intensely, eating up every word like a starving wolf. Bond’s childhood couldn’t have been a happy one, but it sounds like having his cat made it better. Q wonders if Bond ever hunted with the cat. He can imagine it now; two pairs of eyes cutting through the dark, man and his animal on the hunt. Although Q thinks Bond is much like a cat himself; a black panther, eyes narrowed and ready to pounce.

“What was her name?” Q asks.

“I named her scrappy; seemed fitting.”

“She sounds unique,” Q responds, his voice soft. He pulls himself up from his chair and heads to the kitchen. “Would you like a drink?”

“Whatever you're having.”

Q’s having Orange Juice. He shrugs and pours a glass for himself and for Bond. He brings them to the living room and sets them on matching cat coasters.

“Orange Juice?” Bond raises his eyebrows.

“It's healthy,” Q murmurs, “and delicious.”

They sip their drinks in the serenity of Q’s flat, no sounds but the tick of the clock and the rustle of their movements. Q doesn't like it.

“Right,” Q sets his half-finished glass back on the coaster, “that's enough of that.”

“Couldn't agree more,” Bond says. Amelia hops up from the couch to the coffee table, sniffing around Q’s cup. “Don’t you have two cats?”

“Oh, yes. Marvin should be around here somewhere.” Marvin likes to hide under blankets when he has company. Q  notices the wrinkles in his pants and smooths them with his hands, he forgot to iron them this morning. Bond’s eyes track the movement, not helping Q’s nerves one bit. Then his phones vibrates in his pocket, nearly giving him a heart attack.

It’s Moneypenny.

_Bonds at ur flat woah!! Get some!!!_

Q elects to ignore her advice, instead picking Amelia up before she can knock the cups off the table and setting her on the ground. He moves towards the kitchen table, spotting the small box that’s been taunting him for days.

“Your box,” Q hands it to Bond carefully, “I’ve been keeping it safe.”

The contents shift around when Bond takes ahold of it. “Thank you,” Bond’s voice is rough. “Do you have any scissors?”

Q looks at him bemusedly. “Yes, I’ll go get them.”

Bond snips the edge of a black-and-white photograph, until the figure of someone can no longer be seen, leaving two people in the frame. Q looks away to give him some privacy.

“I’ll just go get your bed ready,” Q states.

“I can sleep on the couch.”

“No,” Q refuses, “you’re injured.”

-

 

The next morning Q shuffles out from his bedroom, cats in tow. He wraps his soft bathrobe around his shoulders and steps into his slippers. He’s half asleep and thinking of tea when he spots a figure sitting at his table.

Q blinks, once, twice. “Bond,” he mumbles and rubs his eyes. There’s a cup of fresh tea resting on the table. “For me?”

Bond’s amused. “Yes, Q.” Even half-asleep the man stills manages to make Q’s heart pound when he says his name.

Q pulls out the chair next to Bond and curls his finger around the mug, the warmth seeping into his palm. “Thank you,” he sighs happily and greedily drinks the liquid.

 _I love you_ , he wants to say.

“I never did say thank you for the watch did I?” Bond asks even though Q knows Bond knows this.

“Nor the car,” Q mutters.

Bond grimaces. “Yes, well thank you for both.”

“It’s not the first time.”

“I mean it, Q, they both really saved my life.”

"That's because they were designed to."

“Q,” Bond chuckles, “I'm trying to give you a compliment here. Would you please take it.”

Q debates in his head. “Alright. Thank you 007.”

-

Lately Bond's been showering Q in praises. It's really not good for his heart, because he comes out of _nowhere_. If this keeps up, one of these days Q will melt, or something just as equally humiliating.

Q’s been monitoring 009’s mission for about an hour. Watching the agent trying to seduce an uninterested mark had been both hilarious and unfortunate because now Q has to find another way to get the information.

He’s deeply engrossed in researching the woman’s family tree when hands slide onto his shoulders.

"You're lovely," Bond whispers in his ear and Q squeaks. The man’s thumbs rub circles into the back of Q’s neck; it’s remarkably relaxing.

"I- yes, thank you. Was there something you wanted 007?” Q’s voice pitches embarrassingly at the end.

“Just wanted to appreciate my Quartermaster.”

“Right.” Q looks up at him. “Did you kill someone without MI6’s consent then?”

“No Q,” Bond’s voice is amused. His hands find a rhythm on Q’s shoulders, soothing out the tense muscles. Q considers what it would be like to have those hands elsewhere and lets out a soft moan.

“Q,” a voice in his earpiece startles him out of his reverie,”You alright?”

The Quartermaster pushes away from Bond’s hands to _actually_ do his job, resuming his search on the mark’s family.

“Yes, sorry. Well she has a brother who is infinitely more interested in men. If you’re up for that,” Q tells 009.

“Always,” 009 affirms.

When Q glances back up, there’s no longer an agent next to him, but there is a steaming cup of tea on his desk.

****-

Bond gets injured again and asks to stay with Q.

“Let's not make this a regular thing,” Q states, but he’d very much like it to be a regular thing.

“Of course not,” Bond lies through his teeth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond goes on a long Mission and Q goes into Bond withdrawal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha okay it's only gonna be four parts I swear. This story kinda got away from me. Also it felt too happy last chapter so I gave Q more things to be sad about whoops.

M wants Bond to go undercover for a two months in Peru.

“I don't Bond is the best choice for this mission,” Q admits.

“Well, Bond asked specifically for a long mission,” M studies him with pity in his eyes. Why would M pity him?

Q pales.

Bond asked _for it_. Meaning Bond wanted to get away. Bond wanted to get away from something. Bond wanted to get away from Q.

Dread pools in his stomach. “Oh,” he breathes and clenches his fingers into the fabric of his pants. “Okay, what does he need then?” he gazes at his hands.

"The usual,” M tells him. Q nods. “Except no contact.”

Q’s head snaps back up at that. “What?”

“He’ll be climbing the ranks of an organization, there’s a high possibility he’d be discovered if he’s in contact with us.”

It makes sense, it really does, except Q wishes it didn’t. _Two months **.**_ That’s the longest Q will be going without hearing Bond’s voice, hearing him _humming_ when he cooks eggs in the morning. The longest without the agent’s remarks to brighten his day.

But Bond wants to leave. Leave Q. _It’s temporary_ , he reminds himself.

(It doesn’t feel temporary.)

-

 **  
**Bond comes sneaking into Q branch like a guilty cat. Q watches him with blank eyes and his hands folded neatly on his lap. **  
**

“007,” he says and clears his throat, “I have your necessities,” his voice is cold and detached. His chest has been hurting since the meeting with M and his body is numb. What did he do so wrong that Bond’s fleeing the _country?_

“Q-” Bond tries.

“Don’t, please.”

He pulls out 007’s gun and pushes it across his desk, along with a radio. Bond takes the gun and ignores the radio. No matter, Q’s bugged every piece of clothing Bond owns. He could track the man to the ends of the earth.

Q sighs, “it would’ve been nicer to hear about this from you. I mean we’re around each other for most of the time, it would've made more sense to tell me directly,” Q’s throat constricts, “before I heard it from M.”

“I  need to get away,” Bond admits. “Just for a little bit.” Q doesn’t think two months constitutes as a  ‘little bit’ but ignores that part in favor of studying Bond’s face.

The revelation he has is startling. This is what _Dr. Swann_ experienced, wasn’t it? This is why Bond left her and came back to MI6; Bond has _commitmen_ t issues. It’s blaringly obvious, but Q never focused on it, always  thought the double-0 liked tasting the different flavors of women. As soon as things get serious Bond runs for the hills.

Things were getting pretty serious between Q and him, they ate breakfast together and shared shampoo, and played footsie when they sat on the couch, it was downright domestic. Q’s the new Dr. Swann.

“Oh,” Q breathes out in relief. Bond fixes his tie and avoids Q’s inquisitive eyes.. “You’ll come back right?”

Bond meets his eyes “To you? Always.” he smiles.

Q’s not the new _Dr. Swann_ , Q’s the new Q.

He eases back into his normal routine, no double-0 to bother him. His flat goes back to being cold and empty, only the cats for company. He scrubs out the blood stains on the couch and washes the sheets in the guest room, even though it feels wrong. The cats keep following him around and meowing at his feet now, wondering where the large blue-eyed man has gone.

“Me too,” Q sighs.

Amelia is particularly unhappy, preferring to stay under the comfort of _Bond's_ washed sheets. Isn't that weird, that his guest sheets are now Bond’s sheets. Bond has his own food in the fridge, his own _clothing_ strewn about Q’s flat. Despite Q’s best efforts ( _totally_ his best efforts,) Bond has inserted himself into Q’s daily life.

Q got him a _mug_. He doesn't do that for  anyone. It has a picture a cat on the side which looked identical to Bond's resting face. When Q saw it in Tesco he let out a little gasp. He gifted to Bond, disguising it as a “y _ou use my mugs and I don't like it so now you have your own personal  mug_ ,” gift. 

Bond uses it in the mornings when they sip their tea with the window open listening to the sounds of the rushing cars. Occasionally making up stories for people that walk by.

It's easy, living with Bond, (because that’s what it is now, everyday Q comes home to the agent eating his food or petting his cats.) Conversation flourishes between them, teasing jibes and sarcastic remarks bouncing off each other. When they touch each other, it’s fleeting,  a squeeze of a shoulder or fingers running through hair.

Q remembers one time when they were both sitting on the couch, watching a movie. Bond was lightly tracing his fingertips up and down Q’s arm, making it hard for Q to breathe. Then the man seemed to realized what he was doing and snatched his hand back. The touches happened less after that.

Q's heart has calmed down a bit, no longer threatening to break out of his chest  at the sight of the man. But with a few well-placed words Bond can have Q's heart fluttering and his face flushing. The double-0 often does it too, taking pleasure in Q's reactions.

But Q’s going to be without all that for two months. He's made it these few days, sure, but who knows what the rest of the month will bring.

-

Moneypenny comes over to his flat and they eat take-out and drink cheap beer. They talk about cats, and Moneypenny’s lack of love life, then they venture into the topic of Q’s love life.

“Have you two had sex yet?” Moneypenny asks, and she’s so blunt about Q nearly chokes on his rice.

He coughs and pounds on his chest. “God, you made my eyes water. No we have not, for your information.” Q frowns at his rice container. “I don’t know if we ever will.”

Moneypenny makes a scoffing noise. “Have you seen the way he looks at you, because I have, and let me tell you, he most definitely wants to tap _that_.” she points at his ass, which is firmly planted on the couch cushion. Q gets flustered,  thinking about it. Bond checking him out, checking out his ass. Bond looking at him in general.

“You practically live together. You’re practically married! You just haven't commemorated it yet.”

“That’s what we’re calling it now?” Q laughs and sits his empty container on the coffee table.

Q would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of ‘commemorating’ it, he has thought about it, usually when Bond’s off on a mission. Q moans Bond’s name into his bedsheets and dreams of all the different ways they could commemorate it until he comes, hips jerking helplessly into his hand.

(He does it on _Bond’s_  sheets, surrounded by the scent of him.)

Moneypenny nods. “Also, the clothes you’re wearing are all Bond’s.”

Q looks down, it seems he is. “Right.”

Moneypenny pats him on the arm.

“Totally married.”

-

 

He’s sinking, a weight pulling him down. Becky notices, Moneypenny notices. It gets harder each day to remind himself that Bond’s coming back, because Q is Q and not Dr. Swann and it’s _different_.  Bond  needs a breather, Q can understand that (not really though, Q often doesn’t want to take a breather, instead he’d rather not breathe at all.)

He dreads the graveyard shift again, no double-0 to brighten his night. But thanks to Becky, he’s been able to head home early and snuggle with his cats under Bond’s blankets in Bond’s room, clinging to Bond’s coat. Q is a sad, sad human being.

The mornings go back to being dreary, he tries to make up stories for passersby, but with no one to bounce ideas off of, his creative spark stays unlit. His tea somehow tastes bland and the eggs he cooks are never as good as Bond’s.

Q gets tired of things being dull very quickly. The loneliness creeps back up on him like an old friend. An unwelcome one.

Marvin and Amelia are of no help, they paw at him, asking him to bring back the man who pet them lovingly. They're all going into Bond withdrawal.  (That's what he's dubbed his predicament.)

And really isn't that _pathetic_. That Q relies on a troubled agent with commitment issues for happiness. 

Q needs Bond like he needs to breathe, and that terrifies him. Because one day Bond could wake up and decide to leave MI6 for good, leave _Q_ for good. Q’s afraid that when that happens he'll go through with the urge to pull a trigger.

-

 

He needs help.  M takes notice.

“I’m appointing you a therapist,” M announces.

Q frowns. “I respectfully decline.”

“It’s not a choice,” M sighs and sits down in his chair. “This is a highly stressful job, and it has obviously taken its toll on you. So you will be meeting with a therapist once a week.”

“Therapy doesn’t work on me, sir.”

“Q,” M leans forward and braces his elbows on the desk, “I’m not losing my Quartermaster to his mind.”

Q stills in his chair.

“I want you to live a long and full life okay? I care about you.”

All Q can do is nod. It's been a long time since someone has cared about what happens to him; warmth swims through his chest.

“She’s the official therapist of MI6, so you can speak to her about anything,” M looks closely at him, “including things about a certain double-0.”

“Right,” Q says dumbly.

-

 

Marvin is lethargic. He hasn’t moved from Q’s bed in 48 hours. Q’s tried coaxing him out of it with cans of fish and bowls of milk, but the cat  sits still and blinks at him. He isn’t eating or drinking and Q is _scared_.  Amelia nudges Marvin with her head and licks him behind the ears, and when she gets no response she stares at Q bewilderment.

“I don’t know either,” he tells her. He curls a blanket around Marvin and puts the food bowl next to his head before he leaves for work.

“Don’t leave me too,” Q whispers. He’s tired of people leaving.

All day he’s anxious, knee bouncing, hands twisting. _Marvin, Marvin. Marvin_ , he chants in his head. He knocks over a cup of tea and trips over several wires; he can’t focus on anything.

(Except for the blinking light on his computer screen that tells him Bond’s in Lima, Peru.)

He wishes he could call the agent up and talk to him about Marvin, Bond would care, Bond would know what to do. Bond would rub Q’s shoulders and comb through Q’s hair, until the Quartermaster stilled.

But Bond’s not here so Q has to do the calming himself. He takes deep breaths and tries to focus on his work. After work Q will take Marvin to the vet, and everything will be _fine_.

“Are you alright, sir?” Becky asks him.

He’s fine, everything is fine. “Yes,” he lies.

She doesn’t believe him “Alright, then.” she gets up from her desk. “I’ve got some news.” She hands him the reports and Q does a quick scan over it. “There was an attempted attack on MI6’s servers today.”

“Why did nobody call me?”

“You were asleep and besides, we stopped every attack,” Becky says, “even gave their computer a nasty virus.”

Q grins, relieved, proud of his team. “Good job.”

-

 

Q exits the building with just a lightweight sweater, into below-freezing weather. He walks briskly through the streets, hugging himself. Bond took Q’s coat that he previously owned, making the excuse that it might be cold in _Peru_. Q had looked at him doubtfully because it’s Peru, but let it slide as he does most things involving the agent.

He blames Bond for what happens next because Q would have been paying more attention to his surroundings if he weren’t so damn cold.

A hand grabs his arm, hard and full of purpose. Q fumbles over his feet, eyes going wide when the man wraps an arm around his neck. “Come here, pretty boy.” The attacker whispers in his ear, spit hitting Q's face. The man holds a knife to his back and pushes it against Q until his back is arched but his neck is still stuck. 

“Stop,” Q rasps, “please.” His arms scrabble at the tight grip around his neck. What if Q dies here, in a cold alleyway with no one to help and no one to care and _he hasn’t even told Bond he loves him_.

The arm not squeezing his neck comes up to cover Q’s mouth, muffling Q’s cries. “Quiet,” his attacker mutters, “God I'm not getting paid enough.” Q quiets but claws at the arm, nails digging into the skin, leaving long red slashes.

“Shit!” the man curses. He takes his hand off Q’s mouth and pulls something out of his pockets. Q barely lets out a pathetic garbled yell before the object is jammed into his neck.

Everything gets a little bit hazy after that, Q’s limbs are heavy and why is he even using them again? He lets them drop to his side and feels much better. That must be the solution to his problems; _relaxation_. So he relaxes back into the warm body behind him, sighing.

“That’s it, good boy. It’s so much better when you relax isn’t it?” the body coos and the statement draws Q out of his foggy mind and sends him into a panic. His arms won't _fucking move_ and all he can do is whine. The man slips his glove-covered hand over Q’s eyes. “Shh, it’s okay. Sleep now. Can you do that for me?”

Q really doesn’t want to, but apparently he can because he’s out before the man can take another breath.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q deals with being kidnapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard to write and I don't think I ended it very well. But oh well I finished it so that's something.

When he wakes up his first thought is  _ Marvin.  _ He needs to take care of Marvin. His second thought is _ my fucking limbs hurt.  _ He’s on his stomach, hands and feet tied together in the air, much like a pig. His eyes are covered, but he can tell that he’s on a plane from the way his stomach rolls, and the fact that he can feel the vibration from a  _ giant fucking engine  _ because his body has been deposited on the floor.

Amidst all the noise of the airplane, he can hear voices murmuring to each other in low tones. He can't make out what they're saying and then he realizes they're speaking a different language.

_Well shit_. This isn't just a usual run-of-the-mill kidnapping. Q really hopes this has nothing to do with the fact that he single-handedly shut down Spectre’s entire system, but hoping never gets him anywhere.

Q estimates he’s been unconscious for a few hours based on the gross taste in his mouth. He pulls at the ties on his wrists, spiking a sliver of hope when the rope loosens.

There’s a voice near his ear and then there’s a sharp pain in the side of his head.

  
  


-

They bring him to a room made of concrete and stone, laying him on the floor gently. It’s odd considering the circumstances. Two sets of feet exit the room slamming the cellar door behind them. When a couple minutes have passed only then does Q dare to make a noise. He coughs until his lungs hurt, rolling onto his side.

He removes the blindfold from his eyes, blinking in the darkness. Panic grips it’s claws around his throat and his breathing comes in short spurts. Q has never been a fan of the dark; he still keeps a night light  next to his bed. It’s not the first time he wishes he were someone stronger, someone different. Q sometimes wishes he were like Bond, able to deal and receive beatings like they’re nothing.

_ Bond _ . The name is like a drug; addicting and relaxing. It soothes Q. He leans against a wall, waiting. He tells himself he’s waiting for his captors to tell him why he’s here, but there’s a small part of him that knows he’s waiting for Bond.

 

-

  
The door opens and light pours in, casting a threatening silhouette of a man holding a weapon.  _ A hammer _ , Q realizes and crawls backward on his hands.

“Shh,” he whispers, “be a good boy for me again.”

_ It’s him _ . Q makes a strangled sound as the man steps closer.

“An important person wants to meet you.”

He puts a blindfold over Q’s head.

 

-

The room is large, paintings of nude men and women cover the walls, blurry to him. The painting closest to him makes him uneasy; a man holding his heart out, blood dripping down his arm. He presents it to another man, but this man doesn’t return the sentiment, instead holding a knife that glints devilishly in the moonlight. Q imagines himself as the one with the heart and Bond the man with the knife. It’s  _ fitting _ .

He drags his eyes away from the painting to the large table in the middle of the room. It's decorated with a pristine golden tablecloth. Over it hang chandeliers, illuminating the mass of people gathered. At least twenty stand at the long table, others on balconies that look down at him. Their backs are straight and eyes cold, radiating power. But their faces are blurry and shaped like unique monsters without his glasses.

The man holding his arms blows cool air on his ear. “All here for you  _ darlin _ ’.” Q flinches away. The  _ darlin _ ’ stripping him of his last defenses. The word holds promises that leave Q feeling bare and open.

At the end of the table is an empty seat, he’s pushed down into it. The man behind him releases his hands, but not before rubbing his fingers up and down Q’s arms. He keeps his gaze on the table as a pair of glasses slide in front of him. Not his own, clearly immense precautions were taken.

“You may sit,” speaks a voice at the head of the table and the shuffling of the action echoes in the room. Q’s raises his head to peer at the man. “Glasses, por favor.”

Q obliges. The glasses are his exact prescription.

He observes the man, from the top of his slicked back hair to his dark grey suit. He’s large, obviously has enough money to never go hungry. At his side stands a man, arms crossed.  _ Bodyguard _ .

“Mr. Q,” the man begins, crossing his finger on top of the table, “I am Arnaldo. Do you know what my name means?”

Q stares at him and realizes the man is waiting for an answer. He shakes his head.

Arnaldo smiles. “It means as powerful as an eagle. Suits me, yes?”

Q nods.

“Eagles are strong creatures, they bend others to their will. They  _ devour _ their prey. In this situation I am the eagle,” he gestures at Q, “and you are the lovely little mouse ready to be devoured.”

“The mouse will always be eaten, gobbled up. Unless-,” Arnaldo’s smile widens, teeth seeming to sharpen, “-unless the eagle and the mouse strike a deal.”

Eyes from every point in the room bore into his face. Q has never felt like a mouse before; it’s terrifying, one simple twitch of his hand and the eagle will pounce. He’s cornered by the man’s stare and others around him. When he surveys them he sees different animals; bears, birds, snakes.

The door behind Arnaldo opens, drawing everyone’s attention to the late arrival. The man that steps through that door is a  _ lion _ . Lions are natural predators, stronger than measly birds

The lion is  _ Bond _ .

Bond comes to stand at Arnaldo’s side, arms crossing, gaze sweeping across the room. When it lands on Q it’s passive, so much so that Q thinks he’s hallucinating. But if Bond is here then he’s on a mission which means they’re in  _ Peru _ .

“ _ Tarde _ ,” Arnaldo hisses at Bond and turns back to Q. “What do you say?”

“What's the deal?” Q asks, voice hoarse from lack of use. He has a pretty good idea what the deal is.

“You took down Spectre with a few taps of the keyboard.” Arnaldo says. “So put it back up with a few taps of the keyboard.”

“It's not that simple,” Q sits up in his chair. “It would take months to get it back online.”

Arnaldo’s smile fades. “Will you do it or not?”

Q clenches his armrest. “If I say no?”

“My friend Ronaldo here will show you back to your room.”

Ronaldo steps next to Q, hammer in hand. His head tilts down at Q.

“Hey again,  _ darlin _ ’.”

Real panic starts to set in, he’d rather not become acquainted with the hammer Ronaldo fondly favors. Q searches the paintings that line the wall, hoping for an answer. If he says yes there’s no possible way he could get the system up and running again; he destroyed every last copy of it. If he says no he’s met with a hammer to the face.

“No.”

The word tastes sour in his mouth. It dooms him.

 

-

Ronaldo leads him gently back to the cellar, hand placed on the small of Q’s back. His breath reeks of salmon and socks. Ronaldo doesn’t put the blindfold on him this time, so he can see the hallway that stretches further than Q can see. The lights overhead flicker in and out of use, seeming to match the beat in Ronaldo’s heavy steps.

“Have ya’ ever been tortured before?” Ronaldo asks, like he’s asking Q about the weather or what type of Tea Q prefers.

Q licks his lips. “Fortunately not.”

Ronaldo grins, “Then boy, do I have somethin’ in store for you!”

 

-

 

There’s a chair in the middle of the room now, with restrictions for his hands and feet.

Q lets out a shaky breath when Ronaldo secures him to it, pulling the leather straps tight enough that it cuts off his circulation.

Ronaldo takes a step back to admire his work. “Somethin's missin’,” he decides and pulls a dirty cloth out of his pocket. He wraps it around Q’s head until all Q’s senses are filled with darkness.

“How bout a hammer to the knees first?”

Q grips the armrests of the chair, digging his nails into the wood.

“Whatever,” Q swallows, “you think is best.”

“A hammer might be too harsh for your first time. I’ll start with the knife.”

“Right. Logical.” Q nods.

“Maybe I’ll knock you up with somethin’ first.”

 

-

 

Bond comes when Q’s fingernails are raw and bloody. There’s pain, but it’s numb and Q’s floating with the clouds. Soaring with the birds. Q dreams of crashing into the ocean when the door creaks open and spreads light to the dampest darkest corners of the room, illuminating Q’s slumped figure.

“Q,” the person croaks, rushing over to undo the leather straps.  _ Bond _ . Bond is here and Q is safe.

“Bond.” Q grins through his blindfold with red lips. Bond removes it from him and Q can finally see his face close up. Blue eyes  deadly as they roam over every inch of Q’s body, from his torn shirt to his bruised feet.

“Marvin is sick,” Q informs him. “Don’t want anyone else leaving.”

“No one’s leaving, Q.”

Bond doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Everyone always leaves.  Q ignores him and studies the scruff on Bond’s face.

“You need shaving.” Q pokes Bond when his arms are released.

“ _ God _ , Q.” Bond curls into himself. If Q’s eyes could focus, he’s certain he’d see tears leaking down the agent’s face. “I’m so sorry.” Bond’s arms wrap around Q’s waist, gently pulling him from the chair.

“Gonna be so sore tomorrow,” Q mumbles, burying his face in Bond’s shirt. “Need my glasses.”

“We’ll get your glasses,” Bind soothes him. He pulls away from Q to peer out the door and survey the hall.

"If we get out alive,” Q slurs but Bond isn't looking at him, he needs to  _ look _ so Q can get his point across, “Look Bond  _ look _ ,” Bond turns from his task, “You can have your car. In fact you can have a million cars. All the cars.”

Bond huffs and comes over to cradle Q's face in his hands. “I don't need any goddamn cars Q, okay?”

“But I want to give you all the cars,” Q pouts.

Bond smiles, warm and unusual in the given situation. “Instead how about you just give me you.”

Q nods eagerly, “I can do that. I can one-hundred percent do that.”

“Good,” Bond's thumb swipes under Q’s eye, “that's good, so if that's going to happen I need you to listen.”

“Right.”

“I have to leave,” Bond says and Q makes a distressed sound, pushing closer into Bond's hands. “No shh, it's okay. I'll come back. I have to take care of a few people first.”

“And get my glasses?”

“And get your glasses.”

Bond pulls off his jacket to wrap it around Q’s shoulders. “If I’m not back in five minutes I want you to  _ run,  _ Q.”

“Okay,” Q sighs. Bond’s jackets are always better than his own. He can wait here for a little while, content in the smell of Bond’s cologne. He can’t feel the way his feet protest when he shifts or the way his fingers scream when he touches the fabric.

Bond goes. He’s back within four minutes with blood stains splattered on his shirt. He wraps an arm around Q’s waist, supporting him.

“Let’s go home.”

 

-

 

This time, when he wakes there’s no panic, just the beeping of a heart monitor and a warm hand clasped in his. And then there’s Bond, face relieved, hands cupping his cheeks.

Q blinks sleepily. “Is Marvin okay?”

Bond huffs, “He’s fine. It was just like a cat flu. I’m more concerned for you.”

“M’ fine,” Q mumbles, “Just a little bruised.”

“Not just a little,  _ God _ . Q, I’m so sorry I  _ tried _  to get there as fast as I could.”

“It’s okay. I’m tougher than I look.” Q tries to grin. “What happened to Ronaldo and Mr. Eagle guy?”

“Dead.” Bond answers, voice flat and eyes cold.

“Good.” Q sinks back into his dreams.

 

-

 

Q later confirms Bond’s statement. The pictures of the scene are resting on his desk his first day back to work. Q’s finally been able to get out of bed after weeks of rest with Bond always at his side. Q definitely enjoyed that part.

Ronaldo was killed with a grimy pipe. Stabbed through the chest seven times.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ , James.”

_ James _ because they talked and decided if Bond would be sleeping next to Q and kissing him on the neck and playing with his cats, he deserved to be called James.

“Yes?”

“Overkill don’t you think?”

Bond wraps both arms around Q from behind, hooking his chin on Q’s shoulder. That’s another thing Q loves about their new arrangement; Bond won’t stop touching Q whether it’s with his lips or his hands.

“No, I could’ve done far worse.”

And maybe Q misinterpreted the painting. Maybe Q is holding his heart out and maybe Bond is holding a knife out to protect him.

Q hides a smile when Becky winks at him from her desk.

With Bond’s body at his back and warm lips on his neck he thinks,

_ Yes, loneliness is a disease. _

_ But I’ve found my cure. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Now on to write something else. [My tumblr](http://etherealfairy.tumblr.com/)


End file.
